made for the man with the scalpel. Her right hand formed a tiger claw and raked laterally across his eyes. He screamed, temporarily blinded. As Muloni stepped toward her, Veil was already pivoting and struck her in the gut with a perfectly executed backward kick. She reached for the blade in the blinded man’s hand.
Fists pounded on the door.
“Inspector? Is everything all right?”
Cosette’s cry went unanswered as Bishop and the other masked men rushed to form a tight circle around the prisoner. She ignored them, fighting with the Pakistani for the scalpel. Veil grabbed his wrist in an effort to twist it from his hand. Before she could successfully apply the wrenching kote gaeshi maneuver, Bishop grabbed her from behind, pulled her back, twisted, and threw himself atop her body, both of them facedown. He easily outweighed the killer, but she hadn’t relented and was thrashing wildly on the floor, arms and legs flailing, her gums peeled from her teeth, trying to turn and bite the hands pressing down on her shoulders.
“Somebody get the goddamn chains!” Bishop yelled.
Recovering from her blow, Muloni spotted the shackles on the floor. She grabbed the hand restraints. The key was still in the lock as she wrestled one of Veil’s wrists into the iron band and snapped it shut. Bishop moved slightly so Muloni could get to her other arm. After some fierce wrestling, the woman’s arms were once more immobilized. Breathing heavily, Bishop sat up, still on her back. Meanwhile, one of the Pakistanis had found the ankle restraints and was working to clamp them on while Muloni held down her legs.
Five of us, Bishop thought. Five of us to bring her under control.
Cosette was still pounding on the door. Muloni opened it, disdainfully pushed the bloodied Javert out, then closed and locked it behind him. He had wanted to see the examination, and he had. What he had missed, because he wasn’t looking for it, was the start of the breaking of a high-value prisoner, one who had killed energy officials and politicians the world over but would soon be asked to kill Iranian politicians and the sons of oil sheikhs. The struggle proved that the FBI was right about her: she’d be a hell of an asset. Soon she’d be conveyed into a purgatory inhabited by other malign ghosts like herself. Confined, interrogated, if she refused to work for the good guys instead of the Iranians and oil sheikhs who had trained and paid her, she’d be eliminated.
But Bishop didn’t think that would happen. No human being who operated solely as a mercenary would endure what lay in store when the option was simply to shift their loyalties. And they still had one more card to play.
Bishop was still kneeling over Veil when Muloni crouched beside them. The agent leaned close to the Pakistani woman.
“I have some information for you,” she said, snarling.
Veil tried to spit, and Muloni punched her in the nose. There was a loud, ugly crack.
“You’ll want to listen,” Muloni said.
“ Dozakh, ” she cried.
“ Jannat! ” Muloni hissed back with a wicked smile.
Addressing her in Urdu got Veil’s attention. Bishop could see the assassin’s shoulders relax slightly.
“You will want to hear the reason we brought you in here,” Muloni continued in English. “It involves your daughter, Kamilah.”
Veil’s eyes instantly lost their fire. It was the first time Bishop had seen anything get to her.
“What about her?” the assassin demanded in thinly accented English. “What have you done?”
“What have you done, ma’am? ” Muloni corrected her.
Veil stared at her. She didn’t spit. She didn’t struggle. She was already starting to understand. The American would tell her nothing and would hit her again, and again, until she did what she was told.
“What have you done, ma’am?” Veil asked.
“Nothing, yet,” Muloni said. “But we know where she is. We’re watching her.”
“No one knew,” Veil muttered.
“Akila did,” Muloni said.
The name drained the color from Veil’s face.
“If you want to keep her safe, you’ll do everything you’re told, starting now,” Muloni said. “You’re going back to Pakistan, where you’ll tell these boys everything you know. Names, contacts, safe houses, everything. The interview will be taped, a copy given to us. If we like what we hear, Kamilah will be fine.”
Veil did not move. Jessica Muloni rose slowly. She swiped a hand across the orange suit folded on the table. The outfit landed on the floor next to Veil.
“Help her up,” she told the Pakistanis.
They did. She stood unsteadily, blood flowing from her nose.
“Forget the cavity search,” Muloni said. “Help her get dressed ASAP.”
The group leader, the one who had been holding the scalpel, translated for the others. Bishop rose, and they got to work. Muloni was obviously on the clock now, trying to get the jet off the ground before Cosette or Valjean got in the way.
“You got anything to add?” Muloni asked Bishop.
“I’m good,” he said.
There was no point telling her that this was a shitty business. They knew it, the Pakistanis knew it, and now a small group of Mounties knew it.
The team escorted the prisoner back down the corridor. Javert, Cosette, and the Mercedes were gone by the time they reached the tarmac. Valjean looked shaken. He told Bishop they went to the hospital. There was a bloody handkerchief on the tarmac beside him.
“These individuals are free to depart without the RCMP contingent,” the Mountie said of the Pakistanis and their prisoner.
“Understood,” Bishop said. His voice was matter-of-fact, as though it had been a tactical decision and not the result of the team leader nearly biting off his tongue.
“I’m to remain with you until you leave,” Valjean added.
“Of course,” Bishop replied. He looked at his watch. “Our flight home’s not for another ninety minutes. Can we buy you coffee?”
“If we can find an open bar, I’d prefer a scotch,” he answered.
“Sounds good,” Bishop replied.
Within five minutes, Bishop was driving the three of them to the terminal building. The Gulfstream IV, with Veil and the Pakistanis on it, was just one more rolling boom in the succession of jets leaving the runway. Bishop relaxed a little. Muloni was calm.
“I didn’t realize you knew Urdu,” Bishop said.
“Women who work for the Company need an edge,” Muloni told him. “Farsi and Urdu were mine.”
“Impressive. What did you say to her?”
“She started to swear at me. She only got as far as ‘hell.’ Probably going to tell me to go there. I said, ‘Heaven.’ The inflection suggested that was the only place I’d be going-unlike her.”
“Crap. You did all that with inflection?”
“That’s a lot of what language is,” she replied. “Language was my major. In the Semitic world especially, you find so much of language is just taunt and counter-taunt, with the ante constantly being upped. ‘Your father picks lemons.’ ‘Your mother sucks lemons.’ ‘Your sister is a lemon.’ That sort of thing.”
“Only a little rougher, I’m guessing,” Bishop said.
“Yes.” She smiled. “My father’s family had a Moroccan strain. They were Muslim traders. Very vocal.”
“You get that in my Irish and Italian heritage, as well,” Bishop told her.
“We’re all more alike than we care to admit,” Muloni said. “That’s the damned thing about us killing each other.”
Bishop shook his head. “That’s what happens when you run out of insults, I guess.”
“Screw you,” she said with a little wink.
She was right. Inflection was everything.
The man removed his black mask several minutes after the Gulfstream had taken off. He swept a gloved hand through his damp blond hair. He was Caucasian, with the hulking build of an American football player.
He was clearly not Pakistani.
